Scattered Pieces
by esoterica
Summary: The Games affect them more than they imagined. And they're really all just pieces in them.
1. Part 1: The Capitol

_**Note**__**: This is just a change in the format of the original fic.**_

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><p><em><strong>AN: **__Drabble series centered around the supporting/minor characters of the Hunger Games trilogy._

_**Disclaimer:**__ The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins_

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><p><strong><em><span>Scattered Pieces<span>  
><em>**

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><p><strong>Part 1: The Capitol<strong>

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><p><em>(Effie Trinket)<em>

Effie puts on her hot pink wig and a wide smile on her face. (Yes, she wears a wig and, no, she has absolutely no reason to smile.)

When Effie Trinket was a child, she aspired to do great things. She wasn't exactly sure of what kind of great things, but certainly her ambitions didn't include become a chaperon for the Hunger Games. Let alone for the District Twelve tributes. Everybody knows that District 12 is the puisne in terms of District hierarchy. No wonder why no one from District 12 ever wins the Games. Except for that old sot, Haymitch Abernathy and somebody else who was long dead when Effie was born. People like Haymitch, though, don't do much for this place. Even the Capitol seems to have forgotten it.

So, no, Effie has no reason at all to smile. Yet, she does, and in a rather convincing way, because it's her job and as much as she hates it, it's still her_ job_. of course, if she worked at another District - preferably One or Two - she would get a decent salary and the credit she deserved.

But Effie Trinket will never be promoted to a better District, and she will never get a decent salary or the credit she deserves, and her childhood dreams will all but fade behind the Capitol's horror regime.

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><p><em>(Lavinia)<em>

Living in the Capitol has proved to be much harder that life in the Districts. At least, there, she had some personal freedom. At least, there_, _she had a _voice _- both literally and metaphorically. At least, there, she wasn't part of something she detested with such fierce passion. Lavinia, the Avox girl, has regretted many times her foolish decision that enslaved her and took the life of her best friend. She blames no one but herself for that conclusion.

Today, the new group of tributes arrive to the Capitol. A group of teenagers, a group of kids, headed to the biggest atrocity imaginable. Somehow, this consoles her. Because she knows that she will never be one them; she's that _fortunate_.

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><p><em>(Seneca Crane)<em>

As he watches these two kids put those berries into their mouths, something inside him snaps. They are_ kids_, for God's sake, he can't let them _die _for the sake of a dramatic ending. He knows he will probably have to pay the price - the Capitol is ruthless and makes no discrimination - but it's too insignificant compared to two innocent lives.

They want a dramatic ending; they will have one.

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><p><em>(Cariolanus Snow)<em>

The Panem president has to give it to them. Not only did they manage to get the Capitol's support - not that it would be difficult to enamor these shallow idiots - but they also set a precedent.

The little whelps would create a stir all over Panem with their unheard of action. Did these kids know what they were doing? Had they been instructed to do so, maybe?

_It doesn't matter why they did it_, the sinister president reassures himself. They will have to die, anyway, won't they?

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><p><em><strong>Next: <strong>__Part 2: Tributes_


	2. Part 2: The Tributes

_**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins_

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><p><strong>Part 2: The Tributes<strong>

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><p><em>(Foxface)<em>

She is not that kind of person, the straightforward one. (She thinks about it and concludes that she will not try to kill another tribute.) She is not even the tough kind. The chances are that she will be killed at the Cornucopia bloodbath. After all, she might be smart, wicked even, but what chance does she stand against the blatant ruthlessness and physical strength of the Careers?

And then, the Games begin. And she runs. She runs and she hides. She steals just enough food to survive, but not enough to arouse suspicion. She is a good thief after all. She doesn't know how life in the Capitol is, but, sure as hell, life in the Districts is not easy. Thievery is common enough for anyone. She will have to rely on those skills. Right now, her very live depends on them.

She knows she will probably not win, but she keeps running anyway. For all she knows, the other tributes might have written her off already.

She almost never leaves the area in close proximity to the Cornucopia. She makes sure to keep an eye on the remaining Careers, whose number is slowly but steadily decreasing. She feels quite relieved for that. She would much rather die at the hands of the innocent-looking "Lover Boy" or, hell, even at those of the petite and seemingly harmless girl with the impressive training score from District 11, than be found by the Careers. They certainly seem sadistic, as if they enjoy killing, as if they have been trained to do so their whole lives. Which is probably the case.

So, she keeps running, never stopping, always alert, always watching out. But _never_ stopping.

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><p><em>(Thresh)<em>

Thresh has always been aware of the fact that people were afraid of him. Even at the Games, where among the weak, clueless prepubescent boys and girls stand the strongest young men and women of Panem, people are afraid of him. Which was kind of the plan.

He knows that the Career tributes, the well-off, well fed cocky bastards would like him to be part of their elite group, only to take him down later, but he prefers to work on his own.

He always looks out for the girl from his District and prays it won't be him that eventually kills her.

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><p><em>(Glimmer)<em>

Most people believe that the Careers don't fear anything.

Glimmer has been raised to be fearless, ruthless, brave. She is delicate, almost fragile-looking, yet strong.

Even so, she can tell you firsthand that, what most people believe, is most certainly untrue. And, no, she is not afraid of failing.

She is another _child_ thrown into an arena, fighting to the death with other_ children_, just like her. A child brought up with a thirst for human blood.

She remembers spending her childhood, her fucking _childhood_, preparing for that fateful year when she would glorify her District one more time, bringing with her an endless supply of food and money that no one really needed.

And when her name is called, the day of the Reaping, she puts on her widest smile, pearly white teeth and all, and walks proudly to the stage, knowing that somewhere her parents are watching, the same look of pride in their emerald green eyes. And she smiles because she has to.

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><p><em>(Marvel)<em>

He had trained his whole life, almost eagerly awaiting this moment. His name to be called. At seventeen years old, most teenagers from Districts 1, 2 and 4 were expected to do so. In fact, their anticipation was often interpreted as pride. Pride that they had prepared their whole lives to die.

Such petty ambitions these "Careers" have. (The nickname, which was widely used by the "Slums" of the poorer districts, was well known even amongst the most privileged of Panem's slaves.) It's quite silly to long for something like that. To deprive every child of its innocence, only to throw it in a pit to be eaten by the ever glutton throng of the Capitol. Even as Victors -which is usually the case when it comes to them- they will have to endure a lifetime of death and everlasting horrors, pretending they are fascinated by the innocent blood of children, spilled for the sake of entertainment.

When Marvel readily volunteers, he can almost hear the sigh of relief coming from his father's lips. Never being a tribute himself, he had set his sight on basking in his son's glory.

In the arena, as he watches Cato, Clover, Glimmer kill with such gratification, as his own knife takes innocent lives he knows his father's efforts have finally paid off.

Surprisingly enough, e finds himself preferring the company of Lover Boy, the "slum" from District 12, than endure another second of Cato's thirst for more blood or Cloves derogatory comments on the "cowards" who preferred to run than front their opponents face to face. Not that they would stand a chance.

And when he finds that poor girl entangled in the net and throws the spear that ends her life, he only feels sorry for himself, for being merely a part of the games. He almost feels a pang of jealousy for the dying girl before him.

But only for a second. Then he is grateful, because the arrow that punctures his throat feels almost yanks it for good measure, halving the short remainder of his sad life.

He mentally thanks the girl on fire - so, _that's_ how she scored that Eleven - before he collapses to the forest floor.

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><p><em><strong>Next: <strong>Part 3: The Capitol (II)_


	3. Part 3: The Capitol (II)

**Part 3: The Capitol (II)**

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><p><em>(Veturia Snow)<em>

Veturia remembers what it was like before the Dark Ages.

She is old now, and her memories have frayed - scattered pieces, fragments of life, tinted blue, submerging into lethe. She is confined within the walls of her chambers. It is not a confinement per se, not for someone from the districts. But the same four walls begin to coalesce when they are the sole thing you see, they morph into a room with no corners, no hard edges. Only the infinite smoothness of a prison disguised as a palace.

All mothers long for their children's happiness, or at least most do. Veturia has told herself time and time again that it was her son's happiness that rendered her accoplice. A twisted need to fulfill his wishes - by silencing herself. Her son, sanguine and sly and brilliant.

She would never kill her son, _could_ never. She would do anything - degrade herself, become what she despised - but she would never kill him. Even when he began to kill the sons and daughters of the men and women he ruled. Year after year after year.

"If I had not given birth to you, if I had bore no son, this nation wouldn't be eating its children."

She has confined herself within the walls of her chambers, her opulent cell.

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><p><em>(Plutarch Heavensbee)<em>

He used to tell himself that there was nothing he could do. He did that for quite a long time.

When you grow up a certain way, it is difficult to shed your old beliefs. They have settled comfortably within some deep part of your mind - or your soul, perhaps - and the process of unlearning them is an arduous one.

Tell a child that murder is entertainment. They might think it strange, at first. But it is a commodity. So it _must_ be right.

Tell a child that poverty is perfectly fine, as long as it doesn't happen to you.

Tell a child that avidity is the path to a happy and fulfilled life.

Spew fictitious truths to a child, and they'll believe.

Plutarch Heavensbee believed, until he didn't.

He tells himself that the teenagers - and later the past victors, and later the innocent civilians - that die before his eyes (through a gargantuan screen that broadcasts the horrors until they're stale) are a necessary evil. Necessary.

Because, at some point, grown-ups will no longer tell tales of delusive actualities.

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><p><em><strong>Side Note: <strong>In real life, Veturia was a Roman matron and mother of the legendary Roman general Gaius Marcius Coriolanus. I read about her in my Latin class and, you know, a mini plot bunny just happened to dart into my head.  
><em>


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